'The Other Self' reveals the essence of my 'secret life' the private, personal side of me. My secret passion is creative writing - poems, short fiction, long fiction, historical narratives. I choose now to share the other me with you. Enjoy!

Sunday, July 09, 2017

Sin Verguenza

Sin Vergüenza

By KPLewis

01.03.2011

(2989
words)

“Here! Me quedo!”A sophisticated, honey-brown woman of about
forty, tall, slender and wearing fashionable American city clothes, raps the
side of the bus and calls out in true Bolivian style. The bus draws to a stop;
she alights and waits as the conductor climbs the step ladder to the top of the
bus, unties her bag, and flings it down at her feet.Xica has survived the harrowing five-hour
trip on the Death Road to this place that was her home. She looks around.

It is six pm and
the shops along the main street in Arapata are beginning to throw open their
doors, now that most people are back from the coca fields.In the tiny central plaza, an old man sits
knocking his cane against the concrete culvert, and humming an Aymara song in
staccato beats between puffs on his pipe. A group of giggling teen-aged girls
fleeing two young

men in hot pursuit, kick up a dusty
swirl from the unpaved, rutted road. Nothing seems to have changed in twelve
long years, except for the presence of two internet cafes and a telephone
center, all displaying colored billboard signs. But it feels good to be back.

Eduardo is nowhere
in sight, but his drinking partners are still sitting out front of De Nazario, the local casino and
watering hole, playing dominoes,
demolishing Pacena, and heckling the women on their way from the fields, bags
of coca leaves balanced on their heads, and sleeping babies, wrapped in colorful,
striped blankets, on their backs.

Xica closes her
eyes and inhales the chilly evening air laced with the pungent odor of
freshly-picked coca leaves. From here she will make her way on foot to her
village of Dorado Chico, but first, she must find Germina. They say this is
where she hangs out after work.

Xica scans the
faces that go by but Germina is not among them. Minutes later she finds her
sitting on a bar stool in a nameless three-table local food joint, half her
body sprawled across a table amid an array of plastic glasses, evidence of
drinks hastily downed.Germina’s short,
jet black, naturally-twisted hair clings to her head like moss to river stone.Xica calls her name. She jumps up, standing
erect but lightly, like a leopard ready to pounce.

“Drinking something?” the older woman asks.

“Pacena.Soy mujer sin vergüenza.”

Woman without
shame. Às though naming herself was really an act of summoning some inner power
or exorcising some looming evil, Germina’s ebony eyes come alive in her deep, cocoa-brown,
oval face with its pronounced cheekbones and full lips.Even without make-up Germina has to be the
prettiest Afro-Boliviana Xica has ever seen. Like an untamed animal, she throws
back her head, downs the beer in one gulp, wipes her mouth with the back of her
hand, and dries it on the blue plaid traditional apron that covers the front of
her three-tiered skirt.She’s neither
wearing a woolen blanket nor bowler hat like the other women who are all
hastening home to prepare dinnerfor
their families while the men come into Arapata for some down time. They did say
Germina is different.

Producing a gaily
colored tin from her apron pocket, she opens it, retrieves a few coca leaves,
and pops them into her mouth.As she
chews, she shuts her eyes tight, nostrils flaring, shoulders erect and back, standing
tall like an ancient Amazon.This is the
woman who stole Eduardo’s heart from Xica, the woman the village folk have all
warned her to stay away from. This is
the woman who has, from the moment Xica first heard of her, intrigued her and
occupied her dreams. She knew she had to find her. She thinks of Jesús, her
Afro-Colombian lover of ten

years, back in DC, dying to marry
her but for her reluctance. It was the same with Eduardo. She cannot explain
her reactions but she knows Germina, somehow, holds the key.

The
two women sit facing each other. Xica introduces herself as Eduardo’s ex. Germina
gives no indication she has heard. Instead her eyes are fixed on Xica’s attire.

“Before me. Eduardo’s woman, no?”There is no animosity in Germina’s tone, only a sense of awe. She draws
closer and fingers Xica’s neatly-coiffed hair.

Xica
takes out a multicolored, silken shawl from her bag and gives it to Germina,
who hesitates before taking it, turning it this way and that, holding it up
against the dimming light, then wrapping it about her shoulders, throwing back
her head and laughing. Xica could see she is missing some of her molars on
either side, but when she laughs, her whole face glows with fulgent light, and
her eyes dance.

Xica’s tears stand
on the brink, performing a delicate balancing act. Germina wears with gracious
ease the very power she is seeking.

“Him say I ugly. Fea.” She leans forward, speaking
slowly, holding Xica’s manicured, bejeweled hand between hers, and caressing it
like a man in love would. Xica wonders if she is speaking of Eduardo, but dares
not disturb that connection passing like electricity between them.

“Him say Eres hermosa. You bootiful. I make him
say. Cada noche. Every night him come.
Eres hermosa.” She sighs, her upper
teeth pressed down into her lower lip, her eyes becoming limpid pools, her
hands shaking. After a long pause, she touches her finger to her lip drawing
Xica into her pact of silence. “One night. I tell nobody. I leave. Corrí.Muy lejos. Run far. Never go back. Nunca. Mama not know why.”

Xica is consumed
in a raging heat slaking through her being, threatening to explode like a land
mine from within.She doesn’t want to
hear anymore, but cannot interrupt.

“Them say it. I make them. Like Hail Mary. One
time. Two. Ten. Eres hermosa, eres hermosa. That
power.Women. We have. Tú sabes? You
know? Them take me. But them no own me. Nobody. Nadie. Tú sabes? Germina is free woman. Sí!”

The balancing act
is over; like water from a baptismal font, the stream flows unhindered and Xica
makes no move to hold it back. They sit, for how long, she cannot tell, hand in
hand, each woman enfolded in her own life-defining memories.

The
door opens and a chill walks in, its shadow darkening the table between them.
Xica pulls her coat tighter around her. But Germina’s face lights up, a
youthful softness creeping into her eyes as she drapes the shawl over her head,
framing her face. She is focused past Xica’s shoulders to Eduardo standing there.
As tall, deep chocolate, and handsome as ever, he is leaner, more chiseled than
the Eduardo of Xica’s youth, but graying at the temples.The corner of his eyes are crinkled, but not
in a smile. He is watching her with an unfathomable stare, eyes shaded by his
long lashes and pronounced brow. Xica sits waiting, stripped naked of her fancy
Isaac

Mizrahi garb, unable to summon the
words she had rehearsed for their reunion. No one speaks. Her eyes darting from
one face to the other, Germina is observing the interplay between them.

Eduardo makes the
first move. His eyes dismiss Xica as he crosses to stand next to Germina. Xica
watches tongue-tied as he embraces Germina and tenderly kisses the lips she
offers. His arms enfold her like the mellowness of the silken scarf, while his
eyes, gentle and adoring, leave Xica in no doubt that this woman is the center
of his world. Still without greeting Xica, Eduardo takes Germina by the hand
and guides her out

“Nos
vemos. We see again,” she mouths
to Xica as she leaves.

Xica remains
seated, struggling to steady the mad whirring in her head, the inner tempest at
the sight of Eduardo. She knows he has not yet forgiven her, and probably never
will. Still, she wanted him to be happy to see her, or at least show a glimmer
of affection, if only for old time’s sake.In his eyes there was no trace of the fun-loving, caring Eduardo she
once knew, the one who, late at night, wouldfill the old wheel barrow downstairs with warm water when there was no
coca out on the drying floor, and tenderly wash her body, kissing her all over
while Mama Nita, unawares, slept on upstairs. But even in their better days,
Xica had never seen such softness in his eyes as when he looked at
Germina.

While those memories
wash all over her like a crystal waterfall, cooling, cleansing, cascading, she
picks up a straw and traces the outline of the butterflies in flight on the
peeling, yellow, floral oilcloth. Another hour goes by before she changes into
her pink Avia walking shoes, gathers her bag and merges into the crisp darkness
of the autumn night to make her way alone to Dorado Chico.

At
the crossroad cemetery, where she and Eduardo used to linger, often too long,
during their moonlight walks, she pauses. In the engulfing darkness, she tries to
locate their favorite spot, but there are many more tombs here now and barely
room to plant a foot.One of these is
the final resting place of her parents who died when she was ten in one of the
worst accidents the Death Road had ever seen. It was Mama Nita who raised her
since then. That was when Xica had decided she was not going to live and die
like they did, and like Mama Nita, in the shadow of Los Yungas, without knowing
anything else. But not even Eduardo could understand her need.

It is hard to identify anything here without
the benefit of moonlight. A twig snaps behind her.

“Who’s
there?” Her voice is a hoarse whisper. Only the silence echoes in response. She
exhales.

The crackling
sound returns. This time, she feels strong fingers on the back of her neck, and
a hand at her waist, turning her around, crushing her to him. She would know
that touch anywhere. His lips are harsh, probing, bruising hers in their
intensity.

The raw manly
scent of him sends that old fire racing in her blood. She stifles the urge to lean
against him, and surrender to that familiar passion soaring between them.Xica wrenches free, tasting the saltiness of
her own blood in her mouth.

“What’s
wrong? Isn’t that what you came for?” Eduardo’s voice is ragged, his tone
gruff.

“No.” She shakes her head, rubbing the corner
of her mouth with her thumb. “Just visiting Mama Nita,” she lies. “Doesn’t everyone
come home for the feast of San Benito?”

“Yes, but you
never did, so why now?”

“Can’t you just be
glad to see me?” Her voice is husky. Inside she is reaching for that power of
which Germina spoke.

“Claro! You know I missed you. But you left for no
reason.” Eduardo’s voice is terse, tinged with an unfamiliar sharpness. He will
never understand.

Eduardo jams both
hands deep into his pockets and half turns away from her. “Besides, things have
changed for me.”

There was a time
when those words would have caused her pain, but they don’t. Her voice is
gentle as she squeezes his arm, “And I’m not asking you to. I have a good life
back in DC, Eduardo.I’m glad you’re
happy with Germina.”

She doesn’t mind
that he has called her hermanita,
little sister, and not mi riena, my
queen, like before.

“Sin vergüenza!”
Mama Nita stabs the trousers she is darning with all her might. “Believe me, my
child.” She wags a bony, knuckled finger, “That woman is no good. Not one of
those children is his. None.”

Mama Nita stands
under five feet in her now almost-doubled frame, her skin sun-toasted, face
wizened, and eyes rheumy, but like all the elderly women here, her hair is
still jet black.

“Hmmph! My son is a fool, believe me.” Her
voice is fierce, her tone rasping, strident, authoritarian.

“Does Eduardo know?”

“Lo sabe muy bien. He knows it very well.
He found her in bed with Beltran. His own brother!” The deep furrows on Mama
Nita’s brow add accordion-pleated layers of texture to the already-variegated
fabric of her face. “He refused to leave her, so I put them all out. Not in esta casa.No shame, believe
me. Sin Vergüenza!”

On the day of the
festivities, Xica, in black slinky tights, red sweater and ankle boots, is
standing along the parade route, watching the costumed groups go by, when she
spots Germina among them, dressed in white saya
outfit like the other female dancers. Beltran and Eduardo are among the men in
white attire and black hats, with jimbé
drums slung around their necks. The main dancers are two muscular, bare-chested
men brandishing whips. They prance to the pulsating rhythm of the drums and
sing while the women supply the chorus.

When she sees
Xica, Germina leaves the group and comes over smiling. Two women, huddle
together, pointing at her, whispering and laughing. Germina ignores them. “Hermana,” she greets Xica, grabbing her
by the arm, “you come with me, no?” She leads Xica to a nearby refreshment
stand and orders two papaya smoothies, telling Xica it is good for high blood
pressure. “Black women. Mujeres negras.
Too often we have. Tú sabes? You
know?” She hands

the vendor two Bolivianos, waving
away Xica’s offer to pay. “No. I pay. I like you. You my bootiful sister. Muybonita.
You go back Los Estados Unidos.
You write me, no?”

Not trusting
herself to speak, Xica squeezes Germina’s hand and nods. They make their way
back to the parade route. Some school-aged children follow them, pelting
pebbles at

Germina, and calling her “Puta!” She spins around to confront
them and they run away shrieking. Germina lifts up her skirt, exposing her
generous backside to them before sashaying off, full petticoats swishing. Xica
smiles.

The morning before
her departure, Xica is up before dawn preparing corn humitas for breakfast. She puts the kettle on the table-top,
kerosene stove and goes to the window. Tentative tendrils of tempered light are
beginning to scatter the morning mist.On the hillside behind the house, she sees the lone figure of a woman standing
with back half-turned, puffing on a cigarette, and blowing the smoke skyward.
Something in the woman’s stance speaks of a soul-weariness that causes a
corresponding heaviness in Xica’s heart. Like cornered quarry, the woman seems
tired of fighting some monumental battle. Her shoulders sloping as if in
defeat, she turns to resume her work. With a start, Xica realizes it is Germina.

She, too, used to
go to the coca fields early when she wanted to be alone with her thoughts of
freedom. Xica stays at the window, transfixed, watching Germina, until the sun
has opened both its eyes to usher in a new day.From the little, duct-taped, battery-powered radio sitting atop the
wooden box in the corner, the words of the song are suddenly clear, the usual
static gone:

“How many nights in my dreams

I think of your face

But the love that I live for

Is in some other place”

Two nights later,
back in DC, Xica’s slender fingers tenderly explore the muscled stretch of
Jesús’ back, turning every touch into a soothing massage that becomes at once a
sensuous caress. They work their way from his shoulders, thumbs criss-crossing
along his spine until they feel the narrowing of his waist, then slip beneath
the elastic of his boxers, and slide them down over the rise of his lean,
knotted haunches. She hears his moan and draws herself up the entire length of
his body until her every contour is molded with his.She kisses the nape of his neck. He shivers
and moans again.

in his sharp intake of air when she
lowers herself onto him, and together they begin soaring to Eden.

“Who are you and
what’ve you done with my Xica?” Jesús asks when all is calm again.

“Se murió. Dead. Gone. Se fue,” she says, imitating Germina.

“So you’re ready
to marry me?”

“No. This new Xica
has to be free. But you like this one better, no?”

“True. She’s
exciting. Eres hermosa,” he whispers
against her hair.

And Xica’s fingers
begin again their slow, circular dance.

Germina winks,
blows a butterfly kiss, and disappears in the flowering glow.

Next day, Xica
addresses a card to Germina. She encloses the photo they took together at the
fiesta and scribbles behind it, Mujeres
sin vergüenza. Women without
shame.Later, she drops it into the
mailbox and walks away humming, that new-found power evident in the sultry
swaying of her hips.

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Multi-myriad Me

About Me

The saga continues. I have completed the Creative Writing course and now have my Diploma in hand. Now on to the next thing - Novel Writing, or rather, Novel Revising. Once again, I will keep you posted.

The Way I Use Language

Author’s Note: Codeflow

You will find that I have started to experiment with movement in communication referencing (in speech and thought patterns) from dialect to standard that is neither unidirectional nor formulaic. This is deliberate. The style used here is my experimentation with what I call code-flow. I find myself writing the way I speak – in a comfortable, fluid mixture of standard and dialect, often within the same sentence, the same thought. It is what we Caribbean people do in uncontrived everyday speech. It is not code-shifting with which the literary world is familiar. Code-switching or code- shifting tends to follow a certain pattern, dialect for speech and standard for description and narration as has been traditionally used in Caribbean fiction. I am taking it a step further, letting dialect flow into standard and back again in both dialogue and narration/description, mingling together in the same sentence, the same thought. To me this shows the true fluidity/reality of how we operate linguistically in everyday life. We do not think in standard English and converse in Trini dialect; we think in both and speak in both but not all the same time. I may begin a thought in the standard received form but suddenly I want to express surprise, hilarity, indignation, outrage and the standard does not have the right words. I flow effortlessly to that in which I can express those thought, those ideas, those sentiments most comfortably. I express them and, depending on what I wish to reference next, I either move back to standard, stay where I am or move deeper into another dialect comfort zone. I may say it in French Patois or Cocoa Panyol or a dialect of Hindi or of English or I may use a uniquely West African turn of phrase or grammatical construct or express m thoughts in a totally creative word or expression known only to my country or one group or individual within. Language gets created through use and new words and expressions all have a very specific starting point.

Code switching is an improvement on the outright rejection of the use of dialect as having no place in the written word or in Caribbean literature. It also differs from the outright rejection of the standard as a form of linguistic resistance to colonialism. Yet, code switching is a colonized, conformist mode that, in spite of itself, accepts the superiority of the standard and makes apologies for dialect by restricting its use only to direct speech. It reflects the pedagogy of colonial education which polarized the acceptable standard of the reading books and the classroom from the unacceptable dialect of everyday use by everyday people. It was a time when the whip was applied to purge the tendency towards dialect use in respectable settings.

Code sliding attempts a more integral blending of the two and brings together a variety of Caribbean dialects in one form. It moves in the direction of defining a distinct and decolonized Caribbean identity in the aftermath of colonialism. The term code-sliding, however, implies for me a lack of control, a downward sort of slippery slope movement, and a built-in acceptance of linguistic hierarchies. Instead I advance the concept of code-flow which conveys the sense of non-hierarchical fluidity and an effortlessness that defines acceptance of a unique identity in the context of postmodernity rather than deliberate conscious resistance in the context of coloniality or postcoloniality. It speaks of creativity, reinterpretation and transformation. The smooth fluidity of language that melds the standard with dialect in a thought, in a phrase, in a sentence, shows not so much a rejection of historic influences but an acceptance of the new self,the birth of a Caribbean identity in which colonialism and an ethos defined by resistance to it are merely blurred distant memories. Caribbean code-flow essentially involves and emerges from an unequivocal acceptance of all aspects of a new self: Africa, Europe, India and Mesoamerica, all integral to the new identity through reinterpretation and transformation. It is méstissajé, creolité, unrepentant.